


Captured Liberty

by ancslove



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Forced Prostitution, Gang Rape, In chains and raped for days, Interrogation, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Sexual Slavery, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23959930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancslove/pseuds/ancslove
Summary: Enjolras is captured on the barricade, instead of Prouvaire.  The National Guard take an unhealthy interest in him, but a greater threat arises, one which may succeed in breaking him.
Relationships: Enjolras (Les Misérables)/Original Male Character(s), Enjolras/National Guardsmen, Enjolras/Patron-Minette
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46
Collections: Id Pro Quo 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reine_des_corbeaux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reine_des_corbeaux/gifts).



Consciousness returned slowly. The last thing he remembered was a bullet winging his arm, making him stumble as he was thrown off-balance along the edge of the barricade, and then rough hands grabbing him, hauling him off the barricade. A sharp blow to the head, then nothing. Enjolras remained still as his mind fought to overcome the haziness that threatened to pull him back under. Willing himself to remain calm, Enjolras tried to map out his circumstances. As awareness sharpened, he could hear harsh laughter around him, mingling with more distant shouts, and he could feel his hands bound tightly before him. His eyes opened, just a sliver as his head throbbed, but he could make out a small room, mostly emptied of furniture, and half a dozen men in the uniform of the National Guard. Closing his eyes again, Enjolras tried to focus. Combeferre and Feuilly could direct the barricade, he had no doubt about that. He could trust them to stay true to the cause, while he worked to free himself and make his way back to them. 

Footsteps grew closer, and Enjolras kept his eyes closed and his breathing steady, hoping for a few more minutes to gain his bearings and start formulating a plan. It was not to be. He couldn’t hold back a moan when a heavy boot connected with his ribs. Strong fingers curled around his arms, heaving him upright, and then a slap across his face opened his eyes. A Guardsman leered over him.

“Time to wake up, rebel! You’re going to help us break your barricade.”

Enjolras raised his chin and said nothing. 

The Guards surrounded him and the questions began.

“Who is the leader?”

“France,” Enjolras said, and earned a punch to the stomach for his trouble. 

“Are you the leader?” the Guard tried again.

“The people lead.” 

The Guard’s laughter was ugly. Gloating, with an edge of pity. “The people sleep. They won’t stir in time to help your friends.”

Enjolras looked away. The people would rise, the Revolution depended on that truism. 

Another Guard stepped forward. “How many fighters are there?”

“Every citizen of France fights for her.”

A backhand across his cheek. Then another. 

“How many rounds of ammunition do you have?”

Not enough, Enjolras thought. He hoped Combeferre wouldn’t waste ammunition or manpower trying to recover him.

More questions followed, accompanied by blows to his head and torso as he refused to give the answers they wanted. They asked for plans, and he spoke of Combeferre’s dreams of Progress. They demanded names, and Enjolras remembered ancient defenders of the People from Grantaire’s old ramblings. They called him traitor and sought his sworn allegiance, and he quoted Paine.

The questions and beatings kept coming from all sides, until Enjolras was unable to respond or protect himself with his bound hands. Finally, they left him in a heap on the cold floor. Enjolras listened as the soldiers withdrew from him. Left to his own thoughts, he couldn’t dismiss the worry, the suspicion. The questioning had been rough, but not to the level for which he, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac had prepared. Why weren’t they working harder to pull information from him? What did this mean for the barricade, his friends? He could only have faith in his friends and his cause, rebuild his strength, and fight his way back to him. With those thoughts in mind, Enjolras fell into a shallow sleep.

* * *

Enjolras started awake as he felt hands dragging him across the room. He struggled and kicked, even managing to bite one captor, but more men came to subdue him, forcing him to his knees by a wooden post. Soon he knelt with his back against the post and his arms stretched overhead and secured. The man he’d bitten grabbed his jaw and held his mouth open. A metal ring was forced behind his teeth. The man grinned down at him.

“Try biting with that in your way. The brass say your barricade falls today, so you belong to us now. We’ll put your smart tongue and prettier face to good use.”

The men gathered around him laughed, but at first, Enjolras’ attention was drawn to the mention of his barricade. They seemed so certain that no one would rise, but Enjolras had faith still. Combeferre would prevail, or he would act to save lives in order to fight another day. If the people didn’t seize this opportunity, there would be more. 

A light slap to his cheek pulled Enjolras back to his present circumstance. The Guard before him smiled. “Focus now. We’re going to teach you a new form of service.”

The man’s hands were fumbling the buttons of his trousers, releasing his fall front. His erection, dusky and dripping, bobbed in front of Enjolras’ face. The man slowly rubbed himself against Enjolras’ face, while his hands snarled in Enjolras’ hair, holding him in place. The head of his prick left a sticky trail across his cheeks and forced-open lips. Enjolras closed his eyes. The manhood rubbed against his lips before sliding through the metal ring and into his mouth, coming to rest on his tongue. The shaft was warm and heavy, filling his mouth uncomfortably. 

“Tastes good, right? I bet you’ve done this plenty of times with your traitorous friends. Now suck me, and do it right.”

Enjolras tried to will his mind away, to escape this new horror, the invasion of his mouth and the laughter of his captors.

The cock began to move in and out of his mouth. 

Enjolras sought to focus on the distant sounds of cannon and gunfire, to picture what was happening in the battle outside. 

The rounded head butted against the back of his throat. 

He thought of his friends, hoping against all hope that they lived, that they still fought. 

In and out over his tongue, the cock picked up its pace. Enjolras struggled to inhale around the thick shaft, and tried to ignore the humiliating way the man’s sac bounced against his chin. 

“You like this, rebel slut? You’re not sucking much.” He tugged Enjolras’ hair sharply. “Open your eyes. Look at me, whore!”

Drawn out of his reverie, Enjolras’ eyes opened. The man’s hairy groin and belly filled his vision. Again, his hair was pulled and he was ordered to suck. In pain and sickened, Enjolras didn’t understand. He’d never experienced such an assault, never even heard of this act. Even if he wanted to obey, he couldn’t. 

The man growled his displeasure as his thrusts quickened. “If you won’t suck, then I’ll just take what I want.”

Tightening his grip in Enjolras’ hair, he began moving Enjolras’ head up and down his shaft.

“You’re a pretty one, aren’t you? And you’ll be a good boy for us now. So pretty, with my fat cock filling your mouth.”

He pulled Enjolras further onto his cock, forcing more of himself inside. Enjolras gagged as the head slipped deeper. His jaw was beginning to ache from the ring, and he coughed every time the head hit the back of his throat. 

After long minutes of this torment, the man pulled out, laughing as Enjolras gasped for air.

“You’ve got a great mouth, boy. Almost a pity you didn’t think to make it more widely available. I don’t doubt your people would rise to the occasion if your lips were on offer.”

Enjolras glared up at him. The man laughed again, patted his cheek almost fondly, and then plunged back inside his mouth. Words were soon lost to grunts and moans. His hips bucked rapidly against Enjolras’ face. Enjolras gasped and choked, unable to keep up with the assault, and prayed for it to end soon. Finally, the man climaxed, spilling hot, bitter fluid over Enjolras’ tongue. The seed dripped from his mouth as the man stepped back. 

Enjolras dropped his head, freed from the man’s grasp, and retched. At least it was over. 

* * *

Too soon, far too soon, another strong hand was in his hair, pulling his head back against the wooden post behind him. Another man stood before him, legs bracketing Enjolras’ thighs. He had just enough time to steal a breath, before a new cock was fed through his lips.

Trapped against the post, Enjolras couldn’t escape. The rigid shaft drove toward the back of his throat, but didn’t stop there. The thick head pushed its way into Enjolras’ throat. The burn as his throat was forced open and filled was unlike anything Enjolras had felt before. And still the man wasn’t finished. He kept forcing his way inside, until he was buried to the root. Enjolras fought for breath, tears springing to his eyes, and the men watching his defilement laughed.

“That’s a good cocksucker, you took it all!”

“Bet the rebel whore’s had plenty of practice.”

“No,” said the one filling his throat. “He’s tight as a virgin. This throat was pristine before me!”

“Hey!” called the first assailant. “I had him first.”

“Sure. You broke the slut in for us, and now I’ll just break him.”

With that, the thrusting began anew. Pain turned to torture. The rigid shaft sawed in and out of his throat with dizzying speed. Enjolras choked, throat muscles spasming as he swallowed and gagged, trying desperately to relieve the pain. His vision blurred as air became scarce, and still the man took his pleasure. Over and over, as jeers and shouts rang out around them. Just as Enjolras thought he would escape this pain in the bliss of unconsciousness, the man gave a shout and shot his load down Enjolras’ wrecked throat.

“My turn,” said the third man, “and you better suck if you don’t want me in your throat.” Enjolras raised his head wearily when a new erection bounced against his cheek. 

“Lick it. Roll your tongue around the head.” 

Too exhausted to resist, Enjolras obeyed. The instructions continued, the others joining in to teach him how to suck cock. Under their orders, he licked and mouthed and carefully sucked. The ring gag hampered his efforts, but at least they didn't seem to mind. On and on it went, but to his shame, Enjolras found himself submitting, hoping to stave off the violence of the previous attacker. This time, he swallowed when the man’s seed flooded his mouth.

The fourth man took his turn. Enjolras’ mind drifted as his mouth was used once more. Where was Combeferre? Did he still lead the barricade? Enjolras could only assume that the fight wasn't yet over. The Guardsmen had made no mention of a possible trade or negotiations. That was good. They didn't know Enjolras' true position, and Combeferre hadn't let slip that the leader of the barricade was missing in action. Perhaps his friends thought him dead. That would be best. They would carry on without him, without spending time and resources trying to recover him. 

The fourth man rocked slowly inside his mouth. When he came, Enjolras barely noticed, only half conscious by this point. He didn’t feel his hands being cut free from the post, only registering his sudden freedom when his body slumped to the floor. Automatically, he curled up protectively and hoped they were finished with him. 

Two sets of hands were upon him, grabbing his limbs and rending his clothes. Instincts kicking in, Enjolras struggled. More men moved in to hold him, strip him, beat him when he fought. They pinned him on his hands and knees, naked now, and a voice hissed near his ear, “I want more than your mouth, whore.” 

Enjolras’ own rapid breathing echoed in his ears, once he realized what they wanted. He’d never done this, never thought of it. His thighs were wrenched apart. Three fingers plunged inside his mouth, but were quickly removed. Rough hands grabbed his hips and he felt a blunt hardness press against his entrance. With his mouth still forced open by the ring, he couldn’t contain his scream when the man thrust into him. He screamed and screamed as the man buried himself, inch by agonizing inch, until he was fully seated inside.

“I guess you were a virgin! But now you’re just our fucktoy. Still, don't want anyone hearing you yet. Someone shut him up.”

The sixth man stood in front of him, hard cock in hand. Soon, he was impaled from both ends. Enjolras knelt between them, body shaking with pain. They thrust in tandem, keeping him filled continuously. They called him slut and cunt and spat on him as he trembled. The pain was almost unbearable, with no end in sight. Maybe soon, it would drive him unconscious, and he could escape this wretchedness. 

Instead, his suffering continued. The man between his thighs was grunting now as he thrust. Enjolras could feel hot breath against the back of his neck. The pace and force increased, until Enjolras thought he would collapse, but the two men using him held him up. More thrusting, deep inside him, then teeth latched onto his shoulder and Enjolras could feel warm fluid filling him. With his mouth still forced open, he couldn’t even grit his teeth as his stomach roiled. 

The man pulled out, and another, the one who’d first used Enjolras’ mouth, took his place. “Let’s hope this hole is as good as his mouth.”

And so it began again. The guards took turns abusing him, until all Enjolras knew was their hands on his body, the stench of their masculine lust filling his airway, and the taste of their seed as it coated his mouth. Harsh mouths bit his shoulders and back, leaving swelling bruises. His jaw ached and his lower parts burned, and the violation seemed as if it would never end.

“Ho!” The shout and accompanying bang of a door startled Enjolras back to full awareness. Another Guardsman ran in, smelling of gunpowder and panting for breath. “We’ve won, and you lot missed it!”

Enjolras felt his heart stop a moment. No. That couldn’t be. It was a trick, it must be a trick. 

The Guardsmen continued, “The barricade broke – all the rebels are either dead or fled. Wait, what do you have there?”

The man buried inside his throat pulled Enjolras’ head up. “Spoils of war.”

The newcomer circled round for a better view. A slow smile spread across his face as he took in the sight of Enjolras’ gang rape. “He’s a pretty thing. The police can finish up, I’ll call the rest of the boys in. Save some for us!”

* * *

A hand smacking across his face roused Enjolras from his semi-conscious state. 

“Get up, bitch!” The order was followed by hands around his throat, pulling him up onto his knees. By now, his neck, arms, and thighs were dark with bruises. 

“Open your mouth, boy. Get me hard.”

A harsh pull on his hair opened his mouth, and he sucked mechanically on the man’s hardening member. The task, though loathsome, was a welcome distraction from the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm his mind. Enjolras didn’t know how long he’d been held captive, and he tried not to think of how many times he’d serviced the guards with his body. Time meant little to him now. 

It seemed the guards had spoken truly of the barricade. This fight was lost, the people had not risen. He still held hope that at least some of his friends yet lived, and lived free. He’d seen Bahorel fall early that first day and mourned him in the dark, when his captors were finished with him. But Enjolras couldn’t quite bring himself to grieve anyone else, not when he wasn’t certain of their fate. Not when his own fate was so precarious. The guards hadn’t turned him in, hadn’t even formally arrested or charged him, or attempted to interrogate him again. Instead, they’d simply… kidnapped him. In this silent, empty building, he was neither revolutionary nor political prisoner. They’d turned him into their personal fucktoy. Enjolras was certain that, once everyone finally had his fill, they would kill him. And though he tried to plan an escape, it was getting more and more difficult for his pain-wracked mind and body to focus.

The man in his mouth pulled out and then forced Enjolras onto his back. His arms, currently bound behind him, wrist to elbow, silently protested the move. Enjolras bit back a scream when the man entered him and began the now familiar rhythm. The man moved inside him in slow, deep strokes, face buried in Enjolras’ neck as he rutted. Enjolras winced in disgust when a warm, wet tongue ran up his neck and over his jaw.

“Damn, but you’re a sweet slut,” the man mumbled.

Enjolras’ moans of pain soon attracted more attention. Three guards wandered over, stroking their hard pricks. One knelt over his head and gagged his cries with his erection. The other two stroked themselves to the sight of Enjolras’ debasement as they waited their turn. Enjolras closed his eyes and tried to endure.

The hours passed, each gang rape session leaving him weaker than the previous. Guards came and went, and Enjolras was able to glean that the revolution, or at least this revolution, was truly ended. They didn’t speak much of the happenings beyond Enjolras’ prison, but their duties seemed to be over. During the brief times he was left alone, he tried not to think of Combeferre bleeding out and Courfeyrac facing a firing squad. When he slept, the destroyed bodies of his friends haunted his dreams.

* * *

“Get up, quick and quiet,” a voice hissed close to his ear, startling Enjolras from another nightmare. Feuilly’s bleeding face faded from his mind. Enjolras blinked up to see a new man, huge and muscular and unfamiliar, leaning over him. The man pressed three fingers over Enjolras’ lips. “Come on, the others are all out cold. Slipped something into their wine bottles.”

The man cut his bindings and helped him stand, supporting him with one strong arm when Enjolras’ knees buckled. He was oddly reminded of Bahorel, and his heart twinged. A large coat was draped over his naked shoulders. “Quiet now, I’m getting you out of here.”

Enjolras followed his rescuer out the door. Outside, darkness reigned. Holding the borrowed garment around his shoulders, Enjolras breathed in deeply, grateful for the fresh air, untainted by sex and despair. The stranger guided him through the silent streets. Enjolras tried to gain his bearings, but his mind was too fogged to cooperate, so he allowed the stranger to lead him. Finally, he was led through a wooden door into another building, as bare and nondescript as the first. A candle flared, illuminating the silhouettes of three men.

“Here he is, boss,” the man said. As Enjolras turned to thank his rescuer, pain exploded through his head and the world went black.

A wave of cold water brought him back to consciousness. Enjolras sputtered awake, then gasped and choked as another wave hit, drenching him. As he caught his breath, yet another man stepped forward, this one young and well-dressed, with handsome features. Enjolras’ beleaguered mind leapt to Courfeyrac, but this one was sharper and sleeker, with an air of cruelty that Courfeyrac could never imitate. Delicate fingers closed around his chin, lifting his face.

“Hello, Enjolras,” the man purred. “You may call me Montparnasse, and I am pleased to inform you that you are now the property of Patron-Minette.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I-I-I don’t understand,” Enjolras tried to say. It had been days since he’d spoken. 

“Imagine my surprise when Gueulemer here mentioned that the National Guard, after serving their king so fiercely, had taken themselves a little trophy. Imagine my utter delight when I discovered that trophy was you.” The dark man gave a knife-edge smile. “They didn’t know who you are, but, my dear, we certainly do.”

Enjolras’ breath hitched. His anonymity had kept him alive in the hands of the Guard, and he hadn’t realized until now, when it was ripped away, how much protection that had afforded him. Did these men steal him from the renegade guards, just to turn him over to the proper authorities? But no, that wasn’t what the man said.

Another bucket of water doused him, hitting his lower body this time. The original giant grinned at him as he dropped the bucket. “Gotta clean you up a bit before you can be our new whore. Make you pretty again.”

 _Whore_. Not again. “No, no, please,” Enjolras tried. He hadn’t begged the guards, but he couldn’t, just couldn’t endure this new group. “Please, you don’t care about the king or us. Just let me go, I can pay you, make it worth your while to free me.”

A vicious slap knocked his head to the side. The dark man grabbed his throat, with bruising force, and fury glittered from his eyes. A knife flashed in his other hand, and he traced the blade under Enjolras’ eye. “We don’t care about the king and we wouldn’t care about your little revolution, either. But you killed my friend. Several, actually.”

His grip tightened further, choking him. “Do you remember the man you executed in cold blood, Enjolras?”

Shivering from cold and shock, Enjolras struggled to think. He hadn’t executed any Guardsmen. He’d barely had time to fight, before his capture. 

A hard shake threatened to scramble his brains. “Killed so many, darling? They say you forced him to his knees and gave him three minutes, while he begged for his life.”

“Cabuc,” Enjolras murmured, remembering. “He shot an innocent man. I did what I had to.”

“His name was Claquesous,” the giant, Gueulemer, called. “He was a member of Patron-Minette, and now you’ll pay our price.”

Montparnasse _hmmed_ in agreement. “And what an enjoyable toll it is, for us anyway.” Holding Enjolras’ head up, he bent to capture Enjolras’ mouth with his own. “Most enjoyable.”

They dragged him over to a thin cot and forced him face-down. Montparnasse went first while the others held him down, legs spread wide. This rape was more difficult to block out. As he fucked in and out of him, Montparnasse began to speak, stories of Cabuc, or Claquesous, Enjolras supposed, and Patron-Minette and just what lay in store for Enjolras now. Every so often, he’d stop to force kisses on Enjolras’ mouth, tongue delving inside to lick and claim every inch. 

“You killed two more friends too, did you know,” Montparnasse mused. The knife had appeared again, dancing along Enjolras’ collarbone. “They didn’t deserve to get caught up in your revolution. What good would you do for Eponine and Gavroche Thenardier? Not even their parents mourn them, but I remember.” 

His thrusts were harder now, aiming to inflict pain. Enjolras couldn’t quite follow the thread of conversation, but Gavroche’s name sparked his memory. The gamin, who’d demanded a gun. He was dead? Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut in sympathetic pain. 

Montparnasse was still speaking. “Enlisting women and children to fight for you now? Is that your idea of _egalite_?”

Enjolras wanted to protest, to say that he didn’t know any Eponine and had no knowledge of any women dying on the barricade. He hadn’t wanted Gavroche there, but the boy insisted, as was his right. But if Gavroche had been killed, that certainly meant that his friends were fallen alongside him. They would have protected him, otherwise. Enjolras’ heart wept for them all, but he couldn’t permit his tears to fall. 

Montparnasse had taken to grunting and moaning above him, his thrusts more erratic as he reached his climax. Enjolras grit his teeth as the now sickeningly familiar liquid filled his insides. Pulling out, Montparnasse hissed, “’Ponine, Gavroche, and Claquesous did good work for Patron-Minette, valuable work. You’ll make up the coins they’d bring in, but you’ll do it like this. Men will pay good money to get between your thighs.” 

He cleaned himself off against Enjolras’ hip and stood. “Don’t worry, Enjolras. Better to serve your precious, downtrodden People only itching for some pleasure, than have the National Guard keep you all to themselves.”

One after another, the next two took their turns, commenting appreciatively on how tight he still was. Enjolras barely felt it, lost in his own head. After executing Cabuc, he knew he was condemning himself. The Revolution must be clean, there shouldn’t be a place for either of them in the new world. But he’d never imagined his punishment would be this. He could only be glad that Combeferre, who had so loyally vowed to share his fate, was nowhere near such torment. And Gavroche, the gamin who cherished freedom. He didn’t know Eponine, but he imagined an older, feminine version of her brother, hardened by the streets, but free. All dead, together with his friends, the family he’d made for himself in Paris.

The giant went last, pulling his hips up to tear into him. Enjolras was too weakened and exhausted to scream. He was bigger than the others, bigger than any of the Guards, and his girth threatened to split Enjolras in half. 

“Careful, Gueulemer,” Enjolras heard Montparnasse’s silky tones warn. “Try not to tear him up too much, my friend. Five francs a fuck, we’ll be rich in no time if he stays pretty. Men will line up around the block to enjoy the loveliest whore in Paris.”

* * *

Montparnasse made good on his threats. Patron-Minette installed Enjolras on a wooden “fucking” frame that exposed his holes and took money from men wanting to use his body. They came singly and in groups, coins in hand, through the long nights. His first “customer” was a tall, rough-spoken man in a worker’s smock. Enjolras watched him hand over his five francs and open his trousers, a sick leer lighting his face as he studied Enjolras’ bound, displayed body. The humiliation as he was sold burned in his throat. As the brute settled between his knees, Enjolras told himself that this was just punishment.

The nights ran together, an endless parade of cocks tearing him apart and choking him from the inside out. Montparnasse liked to inform him every morning of the number he serviced the previous night, as the other members of Patron-Minette cleaned up his abused body and occasionally fed him. During the day, his new owners took their fill of him, before readying him for another night of work. Sometimes, Enjolras found it difficult to remember any life before his capture. Worse, he struggled to envision the new world which had previously consumed his waking moments and illuminated his dreams. 

* * *

“You set a new record last night, Enjolras,” Montparnasse told him one morning. “Twelve men in all, my congratulations.” 

Montparnasse brushed the hair from Enjolras’ face, almost tenderly. “Still so beautiful. My, but Fortune smiled on us the day we stole you.”

Enjolras gathered the strength to spit in Montparnasse’s face, and earned a slap for his trouble. Ears ringing, he swallowed down the bile in his throat, and thus almost missed the door bursting open. Gunfire rang out, filling the room with smoke. Montparnasse stumbled away from him, clutching his shoulder. Babet dropped Enjolras’ arm, screaming in pain. Another bang, and he crumpled to the floor. Brujon was next to fall, a bullet neatly between his eyes. Gueulemer seized Enjolras and dragged him up, one thick arm around his throat. Through the smoke, two more shots sounded, dropping Montparnasse. Enjolras fought down his panic as he was pulled flush against Gueulemer’s body. He wasn’t sure what was happening, if the new intruders were here to save him or enslave him once more, but this might be his only chance. Without thinking too deeply, Enjolras bit down on Gueulemer’s arm. Hard. The big man yelped in pain, and when his grip loosened, Enjolras was ready. He threw himself forward, breaking the last of the giant’s hold on him, and hit the ground. More gunshots, and Gueulemer was dead.

Dazed, shaking, Enjolras stayed down. But soon, new hands were on him, cradling him with a gentleness that Enjolras had forgotten. Feuilly looked down on him, smiling. Alive. Enjolras blinked, unable to trust his eyes.

“This is another trick. You’re dead.”

Feuilly clutched Enjolras to him, weeping hot tears. “No, no, my dear friend,” he whispered, voice hoarse with emotion. “We thought _you_ were dead! We thought you’d died on the barricade, and it killed us that we couldn’t recover your body.”

Bossuet and Grantaire, dearly welcome faces, materialized, kneeling down on either side of him, reaching for him. His arms, his face. Enjolras shied away, unwilling to have them soil themselves by touching him. 

“Shh, easy,” Grantaire soothed. Grantaire, so often coarse and drunk, but always strangely tender with him. His hand hovered by Enjolras’ cheek, with an aching reverence that just might begin to heal the wounds to Enjolras’ soul. “We’ve got you now. Combeferre will be ecstatic. He hasn’t been the same since losing you.”

“He’s alive?” Enjolras asked. “And you are all well?”

Bossuet took up the story. “We retreated when it was clear the day was lost and Combeferre was wounded. With him down and you lost, prudence was the better part of valour. He’s recovering well, have no fear.” 

Bossuet wrapped him in a long overcoat, and Enjolras froze in terror, remembering his last “rescue”. But his friend embraced him closely, warm arms chasing away the shadows of his ordeal. “Thank god, oh thank god above you’re alive!”

Enjolras swallowed, too relieved for words, thoughts unable to coalesce. The tears held at bay for so long finally welled to the surface. Burying himself in his friends' arms, he sobbed out his fear, grief, and shame. They held him close, their tears mingling with his.

“Do you permit it?” Grantaire whispered, and when Enjolras nodded his dazed acquiescence, gathered him into his arms with that same reverent touch. “Rest now, and when next you wake, you’ll be safe and free.”

With the lure of freedom singing in his soul, Enjolras gave himself to unconsciousness, trusting his friends to care for him. At last, it was over.


End file.
